From: c0sm0s@aol.com (C0SM0S)
Newsgroups: alt.sex.motss
Subject: <0 0>
Date: 29 Sep 1994 20:08:02 -0400

     I guess I must have been one of those babies who masturubated in
the womb. I know that I was constantly being nagged by my mother (with
whom I lived alone) to stop playing with myself from the time I was
very, very young. Even now, after all these years, I can feel the edges
of the shadows left by the feeling of my tiny penis being rubbed and
pinched and squeezed to hardness.

     One particular incident stands out for me. I was five years old and
was living in a house in which I had my own room, a room I finally did
not have to share with my mother. I had a habit of taking small toy
soldiers or other toys to bed with me at night in order to play, as I
called them, "little games." These were usually innocent games which
carried me over into sleep. But being the inverate little masturbator
that I was, these games would sometimes take a sexual twist. The toy
soldier would play ins ide my pants, causing my own tiny soldier to
stand at attention. I know in those days I never rubbed myself enough to
have an orgasm (at least I presume I didn't.) It just felt good to play.

     At that age boys often blur the difference between penile pleasure
and anal pleasure. I did. My toy soldier would sometimes tire of his
play with my penis and would head toward darker, more hidden pleasures.
The little man-at-arms would investigate my poo-poo as I called it then,
my asshole as I later learned to call it. He would stick his head in to
investigate and sometimes I would then stick a finger in to complete the
investigation. My pipi would spring up tight and eager at that game.

     One evening I brought my marble bag to bed. Why? I certainly didn't
intend to .... But I held the glass sphere at my puckered anus and
pushed it partly in nd let it come out. It felt good but not as good as
the finger. I pushed it again. This time it popped into my ass, the
sphincter slamming shut behind it.

     Five year olds are not very logical. With the insertion of the
marble, I panicked. I was sure it would never come out. I hopped out of
bed and padded to the bathroom in my pj's. I sat on the toilet, afraid
that the marble would never come out, that it would somehow grow inside
me and take over my life. I strained. It popped out, of course. I sighed
a sigh that echoes doown to these days and muttered to myself that I'd
never do that again.

     Never is a short time for a young boy. I stayed away from marbles
for a while but the thrill of anal insertion had hooked me for life. I
started putting things in that I could hold onto and easily pull out:
fountain pens, my soldiers, one finger, two fingers, thin
candles,anything that had the right shape, sufficient length and was not
too large around. After my ascension to the lofty heights of a seven
year old, I stopped worrying about losing things inside me. My newly
found logic told me that what w ent in had to come out. I tried to see
how many marbles would go in at one time, then graduated to large jaw
breakers, Vienna sausages, small carrots, hot dogs, and other delights.
I eventually got the nerve up to lick the jaw breakers after they came
out, then to suck them quickly, finally to eat one.

     As gross as it might sound, when I was ten, I managed to slip two
hot dogs inside my butt and walked around the house with them inside me.
By this age, I was being left at home alone, a latch key kid as they are
now called, so my mother could go to work. After about ten minutes of
traipsing around our apartment nude, my little bonar waving infront of
me, I pooped out first one, then the other hot dog into my waitng hand.
The first one I had pushed in me was pretty well streaked with shit. I
let that on e drop into the toilet. I then put the other, cleaner dog,
on a bun, spread mustard and catsup on it and ate the whole thing. I
don't remember there being any real flavor to it other than that of hot
dog. But the idea of what I was doing both thrilled and disgusted me.

     During these early years I was not soley interested in things going
in and coming out my asshole. As a six or seven year old, I would love
to play with my wee-wee as it spurted out, making it splash around the
toilet bowl, shooting down cigarette butts my mother left in the toilet
or, greatest thrill of all, wiping the last drop off of the tip and
tasting that one forbidden drop of gold. After seven years I got bolder.
I would lie in the bath tub, ear carefully tuned to the sound of my
mother's approac h, and pee a high, arcing stream that would usually
land first on my chest. I would slowly direct the stream of piss so that
the last ounces would spatter on my face and, if I timed it right, into
my mouth before the force of the spray diminished. At so young an age,
the force was never so much that I could do more than have the quickest
taste of my boyish pee.

     Not satisfied with the scant tastes I was getting, one Saturday, I
got a jelly glass, possibly one with the new cartoon characters from the
Flintstones and peed into it over the toilet. I remember clearly the
feeling of the warm liquid pouring over my hands as it overflowed the
glass. A sip, another, and I found that the slightly bitter, salty taste
of pee was something I liked. I drank the whole glass in delicate sips
and hungry gulps. From that day on, I would drink my pee-pee at almost
every chance I got. Could hot dogs and lemon-ade be far behind?

     Ten years old growing into eleven. Fifth grade proceeding into
sixth. I began to hear new words, new ideas grew as I did. Pee-pee
became piss; poo-poo became shit, and I developed a fascination with
anything I could shove up my asshole. I learned to love the feeling of
being full: I would hold my morning piss until it leaked out without my
doing anything. I would avoid taking a crap until my gut ached. When my
intestine was empty, I would seem things to fill it with, the best being
larger candles and g arlic sausages, but nothing really satisfied my
needs. One summer's day, not long after my eleventh birthday, I was on
the prowl through the house for something new, something big, something
that would satisfy. In the hall closet was a long ignored flat box. In
the box was a vaguely familiar, red rubber bag with a long hose and
black nozzle attached. I remembered enemas immediately. I remembered the
stinging irritation I would feel when as a very young boy, I got the
nozzle poked inside my butthole. My moth er would soap the nozzle for
lubriucation and the soap would... well, in my more recent search for
things to cram inside me, I discovered that soap was no fun. The
memories of the pain from the soapy nozzle were combined with memories
of filled stomachs and painful cramps but a distant remebrance as well
that it wasn't entirely bad.

     Our house had a bathroom which was separate from the toilet. I
added a little water to the enema bag in the tub and dutifully took the
bag to the toilet room. Afterall, such activities belonged in the
toilet. No soap this time, I pushed the nozzle against the tight pucker
of my ass, and the sphincter gave way immediately. Maybe my frequent
play had loosened me up enough to accomodate it. Maybe, and this I
believe to be closer to the truth, my mother had soaped the nozzle in my
earlier experiences in or der to take the fun out of it. I opened the
metal clamp and then was hit by the rush of air from the hose. Next came
the gurgle of cool water which tickled and filled me up. My pipi stood
up so that it was pointing toward heaven, not out in front like it
usually did when I had an erection.

     I had put in less than a cup of water and it did fill me, but only
the lower part of the big empty spce that needed filling. I pulled the
nozzle out and padded back to the bathroom with my cheeks clenched
tightly shut and filled the bag full this time. I started toward the
toilet room but my buttocks relaxed for a moments and I squirted a tiny
squirt of water out. I knew I'd never make it to the toilet so I
carefully climbed into the tub.

     More water squirted from me as I inserted the nozzle again, but I
 didn't care. There was a hook over the tub for a towel where I hung the
 bag. On my first experience I didn't know the rudiments of
 hydrodynamics. I didn't know that the higher the bag, the faster the
 flow. I knelt in the tub and opened the clamp. My first lesson in
 hydrodymanics. I was flooded by the surge of water. I couldn't have
 been in the tub, enema filling my eleven year old intestine, for much
 more than ten to fifteen seconds when my little penis was jumping in a
 wild, dry orgasm.

     Until that time, all of my masturbation had been to the point of
that pre-orgasmic sensation of feeling good. This was my first orgasm,
albeit dry, and one that I will remember. I was hooked. Although I
didn't give myself another enema for several weeks, the mess to clean up
afterward made me reluctant to do so (I had lost all control during my
orgasm), the bag called to me everytime I opened the closet door. Often
I would pull up the top of the box and look inside, telling the bag and
hose that soon, soon I'd do it again.